The Perfect Heart

The Perfect Heart

by Y.M. Tucker

the perfect heart began its quest to find the perfect home

around the world it wandered, ever on the roam

its splendour and its beauty, its pristine virgin state

remained intact until it met the soul of human fate

the joy upon a mother's face as she gently held her child

caused the perfect heart to swell with feelings new and wild

the shudders and tremors intensified and then the heart was torn

at the bedside of a little girl whose family prepared to mourn

an Afghan woman's disfigured face slashed the heart once more

but it revived as strangers came to help the homeless poor

the scars of life then marked the heart, its size and shape had altered

yet still it sought the perfect place, its search never faltered

beneath the glow of a heavenly star, in a humble stable stall,

a baby lay on a bed of straw, a gift of hope for all

battered and pierced yet full of love for present, future and past

the perfect heart had finally found its perfect home at last

What Really Matters

We sure know how to mess up a good thing, don't we? People get so caught up in insignificant little details and self-righteousness that they allow themselves to become as close-minded and obtuse as the ones with whom they have a difference of opinion. The latest pile of nonsense making the rounds of the hogwash circuit is a dispute over the skin color of Jesus, Santa Claus, and St. Nicholas. Who cares? How could the skin pigmentation of either of these messengers of harmony and goodwill possibly change one iota of earth's past, present or future? If humankind is made in the image of God, as related in the Book of Genesis, then He/She must be multi-colored. Wouldn't that be lovely to see!

Christmas is a gift. The spirit of this blessed season is one of love, joy, hope, peace, tolerance, compassion, kindness, forgiveness, generosity, acceptance, reconciliation...... It's not a competition of race or creed. Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus and any other denomination – yes, even atheists – can all benefit from a healthy dose of that magical elixir so freely dispensed by the bounteous Ghost of Christmas Present in Dickens' classic story.

As a Christian, I commemorate the coming of Jesus Christ at this time of the year. The actual date of his birth is immaterial - it's the celebration of that event that's significant. Amidst the frigid darkness of barren winter, the light of love brings warmth and joy to my heart and home.  Exchanging gifts and happy greetings adds to the spirituality of the occasion. I admit to being slightly miffed upon repeatedly hearing Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings instead of the traditional Merry Christmas, but I get the fact that social and political correctness are currently in vogue. It's all just a matter of perspective. The underlying expression of benevolence remains the same.

So, while the antagonists of this world play their silly games I refuse to be drawn into such vacuity. I will happily accept your offering of Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings if you will allow me the same courtesy as I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas. To quote Tiny Tim, “God bless us, everyone.”

Baking up a Storm

It happens every few years, in cyclical fashion. I get an uncontrollable urge to bake Christmas goodies. In between years, I rely on the pastry chefs at the local supermarket to impress my guests during the holiday season. Last year the Grinch had a strangle hold on me as not only was baking nowhere on my checklist, but I didn't even put up a full size Christmas tree – just a tiny table top excuse for a tree with about six little bulbs on it! Sure, my livingroom was less messy and less crowded, but there was definitely something missing.

Things are going to be different this year. I've been devouring Christmas cookbooks for the past few days and writing lists of baking staples to be purchased so off I went to the grocery store today, hubby in tow to do the heavy lifting. Why the change of heart? Well, as I said, it's partly the cycle of life (for me, anyway) but it probably has more to do with the blessings which my family has to be thankful for this year. My husband battled cancer and won, my son suffered through a three hour flight with his appendix ready to rupture and was rushed into emergency surgery upon landing, and just a few weeks ago, we welcomed the birth of our first little grandchild. So, why not be happy and eager to celebrate the joyous gift of Christmas?

I'm even challenging myself to make a dark fruitcake to serve to friends and family this year. That's a major leap up the elf ladder for me because a.) I'm not overly fond of fruitcake, and b.) just looking at the lengthy list of ingredients and directions for fruitcake usually sends me scurrying for cover. But last night I found a recipe for a simplified version and it looked so incredibly easy that I currently have it baking in the oven. Imagine that! One down, many more to go. I'll no doubt spend more money on baking supplies over the next few weeks than it would cost to buy the store bought varieties, but I plan to enjoy every bit of mess I make in the process.

Speaking of kitchen messes, I recall one pre-Christmas baking frenzy when my kids were young and I enthusiastically decided to try my hand at creating a batch of intricately detailed gingerbread men. All was fine until the miniature menfolk went into the oven. Something distracted me (not much wonder, with three rapscallions galloping around the house stirring up heaps of mischief) and my poor little gingerbread men burned to a crisp. The smoke alarm first alerted me to the disaster and after removing the scorching cookie sheet from the oven, I ran around opening doors and windows to clear the air. Looking at the cluttered countertop, the sink full of dirty bowls and utensils, and the cindered gingerbread, my eyes burned with smoke and frustration. In desperation, I hurled a ginerbread man to the ground and watched as tiny cookie body parts flew all over the kitchen floor. It felt so darned good that I did it again. By this time, the kids had halted in their tracks and were watching their mother like silent statues. We all burst out laughing at the same time and then I held out the cookie sheet so they could join me in destroying the evidence of my baking fiasco. What fun we had smashing all of those little gingerbread men into thousands of gingery crumbs. Naturally, the cleanup was extensive. We didn't make another batch of gingerbread men that Christmas but we sure made a long-lasting memory. My grown sons still talk about it with fondness. Maybe my little grandson will have his own turn at smashing gingerbread men someday.

So, now the wind is howling and the snow is swirling outside but inside all is toasty warm. There's a lovely pot of beef stew simmering on the stove and the aroma of fruitcake is wafting through the house. There's plenty to go around if you'd like to drop by. I'll put the kettle on.

To Logan

The rhythmic beating of a swollen heart has coursed through my veins before.....

Love in various ways and forms has radiated joy afore......

Fingers intertwined with mine have passed affection from one to another.....

Tears have flowed from my eyes before for one reason or other.....

I've known the desire to protect and shield, I've felt its intense power.....

Breathed the soft sweet scent of newborn skin, unmatched by any flower.....

Laid bare my soul in darkest night to commune with the Maker in prayer.....

Thought I'd known all there was to know of life's bountiful fare.....

.....and then there was you. Precious one.

Tricks and Treats

There'll be shrieks of laughter, howls galore, and loads of fun at my house this Halloween. Oh, yes, there will probably be trick or treaters, too, but Thursday is Rummoli night and it's my turn to host this week. Five or six years ago a few ladies from my Church invited me to join their card group. I thought at first that it would probably be a very staid affair. Boy, was I wrong!

The stakes are high at these weekly gatherings. We still play for pennies even though they are no longer in monetary circulation. But who cares anyway? It's definitely not about the money. I have no doubt that if someone were to secretly videotape one of our Rummoli nights, it would be a viral hit on Youtube.

In between sharing the good and the bad, the happy and the sad stories of our lives, we also manage to play a few hands of cards, although it gets very confusing at times when no one can remember who played last or whose turn it is to deal. One night we were totally befuddled when duplicate cards started turning up over and over again. No matter how many times we counted the cards and came up with 52, those darn duplicates made an appearance round after round. By the time we finally realized that two identical decks of cards had been mixed up, it was time to stop playing and have a little lunch.

Good-natured joking is par for the course with this group of hardened gamblers but it's each girl for herself when the poker pot grows to a whopping 38 coppers. Hot flashes often rotate around the table, especially after a glass of wine (or two). Once a year, as many of the group as can make it journey to the cabin of one of the members for an unforgettable night of revelry. No need to say anymore. What happens at the cabin stays at the cabin.

Within the group, each woman brings a particular gift to the table. Anne is the official keeper of the almighty hosting schedule and chief s—t disturber. She thoroughly enjoys stirring things up and then sitting back to watch the hilarious outcome with smiling lips and shining eyes. Flos is our maid extraordinaire. When she's present, lunch proceeds with finesse and flow. When she's out of town, disaster usually prevails. Theresa's laugh is infectious and so are her yawns. Carol has the gift of storytelling and Margie's absentminded plays keep us in stitches. Alice's feet are always cold but her heart is warm; she keeps us honest when someone forgets to add pennies to the pot. Fan is the quiet one of the bunch but she enjoys a good laugh as much as the rest of us. Rose Marie's sense of humour is phenomenal and she has a snippet of song to share for just about any eventuality. And me? Why, I'm just thrilled that they've invited me along for the ride.

I can't say I've learned much about card playing from these ladies, but I've sure learned a great deal about friendship and support. We've got each others' backs and when the chips are down, this bunch of unlikely card sharks can pray the heck out of any gaming table in Vegas.

Happy Halloween to everyone and especially to my Rummoli group. Looking forward to a spooktacular night!

I Confess

I've always been highly annoyed by well-prepared people who proudly proclaim in September that they just finished wrapping all of their Christmas gifts. Smiling and nodding, I usually make some inane comment while my blood boils and I long to shake the smugness right out of them. No, I'm not hiding a propensity for violent behaviour, but I do have a confession to make and I'm finally ready to admit it. I am a procrastinator. There, I've said it. I think I've been one all my life – with the exception of giving birth. I somehow managed to do that ahead of schedule three times in a row. But that might have something to do with medical circumstances rather than my own initiative.

My recollection of elementary and high school years contains numerous moments of near panic followed by hours of intense preparation as due dates for assignments and exams loomed perilously close. This pattern seemed to repeat itself in college and even sometimes crept into the workplace in later years. It's not that I'm lazy or nonchalant about my work. On the contrary, I have a troublesome habit of over analyzing matters which often results in unnecessary self-inflicted pressure when deadlines are involved.

For instance, after taxing my brain to its limits during the past fifteen months of enrolment in a distance education program and having achieved a degree of success so far, I hit a roadblock in preparing my final project, the most comprehensive challenge of all. I pondered ideas over and over again; rejected them over and over again; sat at the computer to put words on paper (so to speak) over and over again; and got nowhere over and over again. My mind wandered to an amazingly varied range of topics to distract me from the real task and I even found myself cleaning the toilet or washing floors to avoid concentrating on my assignment. Then the calendar date smacked me right in the gob a few weeks ago when the page rolled over to October with its colorful depictions of falling leaves and carved pumpkins. OMG! Panic time again! Is there some perverse aspect of my character which prevents me from becoming fully engaged until adrenalin flows through my veins, startling me into action? I finally got down to business, completed the project, and submitted it with one week to spare. Wow! Maybe I'm improving.

Now for that Christmas list which has been sitting on my coffee table for the past week or so. I'm sure I'll get around to it before December 24^th. Yep, it's definitely time to stop procrastinating. Starting tomorrow.

The Thanksgiving Parade

The Thanksgiving Parade

by Y.M. Tucker

A rumor spread like wildfire of a coming big award

as the leaves of fall began to swirl around the old barnyard

in crimson, gold and orange, autumn's festive hues,

a day of thanks for hard work done was the glorious news.

 

The animals of the kingdom all gathered for discussion

in groups of twos and threes and fours; landsakes, what a percussion!

Lazy Daisy and Sweet Bess, that gossiping bovine pair,

with swishing tails and flapping lips mooed the message to Fanny Mare.

 

Uncle Tom, his wattle swinging, gobbled to the others

of how he heard with his own ears the farmer's sons and daughters

talk of the festival soon to come with bountiful food and dancing.

All this excitement in the air set the hens to scratching and prancing.

 

The squealing pigs within their pen rolled gleefully in the muck

while Mama Duck and her little brood couldn't believe their luck.

A day of thanksgiving! What a treat! Oh, plans they must be made

to celebrate such a wonderful thing with a big barnyard parade.

 

Away upon the far off hill where the farmer's house did stand

were tables spread with harvest crops, fine bounty from the land.

Apples, carrots, yams and squash, and pumpkin pies galore;

No finer feast could e'er be found in the city's fanciest store.

 

Anticipation mounted as the farmer could be seen

descending from his hilltop to the barnyard's pastoral scene.

An axe he carried in one hand and a musket in the other.

Quick, step in line for the grand parade, whispered Tom onto the others.

 

The clucking, mooing, squealing and gobbling created a splendid din

as animals took their place in line to greet the farmer and his kin.

When the old man's eyes beheld the sight of the prattling barnyard critters,

his heart it took a painful leap and his hands they got the jitters.

 

He placed the axe against the barn and the musket in its rack

then headed home with animals in tow, Ole Tom leading the pack.

Through the barnyard and up the hill they marched in baronial fashion;

ne'er before nor since was thanks bestowed with such finesse and passion!

 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

 

Elusive Equality

This morning I watched in sadness and disbelief as one of the big TV news stations aired an online video about a 25 year old woman from Vera Cruz, Mexico whose boyfriend had padlocked her jeans to keep her faithful to him. Apparently this wasn't something new but this time she was in extreme pain from needing to use the washroom and, so, in desperation she ran to the local police station for help because she was afraid of retaliation if she cut herself free. The police took pictures of the padlock on her jeans, brought the 40 year old boyfriend in for questioning and, because she refused to press charges, they released him after he signed a statement promising to never padlock or abuse her in any way again. Meanwhile, he nonchalantly produced a key from his pocket which fit the padlock perfectly. In an interview with the TV station, a women's rights spokesperson in Mexico said that the woman at the center of this story has been a victim of crime for 12 years. Now, let's do the math. She's currently 25 years old and she has been a victim for 12 years? Shouldn't that astounding revelation be enough to warrant further investigation? Shouldn't the onus of pressing charges be removed from the victim in such extenuating circumstances? Obviously the poor young woman is terrified of reprisal if she files charges against her tormentor.

We are nearly 14 years into the new millennium – ostensibly an age of technology, freedom, universal equality.... Bull crap! Here in the “civilized world”, legions of women face harassment, intimidation and even physical abuse on a daily basis in their homes, workplaces, and social settings. Many choose to let it pass because they don't want to stir up trouble. Sadly, others have such low self-esteem that they convince themselves they deserve this kind of treatment. Fear of speaking up in defense of themselves paralyzes a lot of women, especially when the intimidation is perpetrated by a man in a position of authority in their life (real or perceived).

Although our modern society claims equality in the workplace, the truth can be a different reality for some women employed in non-traditional occupations. How many women silently endure ridicule, sarcasm, condescension, sexual innuendo, pinches, grabs, lewd whispers, etc. in the workplace? Going to work every day on your guard against such unwelcome attacks is physically and mentally draining.

How many women, like the young woman in Mexico, live in dread of their spouses or physical abusers? Often, women in domestic abuse situations have nowhere else to go so they put up and shut up as a method of self-preservation.

Even a young woman who enjoys an evening out with friends is subject to suspicion and skepticism if she alleges inappropriate conduct by a male acquaintance, bar patron or cab driver. She was only looking for trouble is the mindset of some who would judge her.

Is the legal system sometimes guilty of failing to fully support the victim in harassment/abuse cases? Innocent until proven guilty is the basis of justice in democracy. It's a commendable tenet; yet, what about the victim? When a young woman lies bleeding to death from a gunshot wound to her back and her ex-boyfriend is found hiding in bushes nearby with a recently fired gun, it can take years of legal wrangling before a trial date is even set. Whose rights are being protected then? Certainly not the victim's. She remains in her grave.

Women and girls everywhere need to find the courage to speak out against any form of intimidation or abuse. The law needs to better protect them when they do come forward. Men need to be more vocal in their condemnation of abusive behaviour. They, too, are being victimized by gender association. Equality is not quite a reality yet.

The Turnaround

After nine months of waiting, three weeks of hospitalization, and eleven hours of labour, a young couple in a northern Canadian mining town welcomed their firstborn son with joy and wonder. That baby was mine and I still vividly recall the amazement I felt at having accomplished such an incredible feat. I held him close as I breathed in the sweet baby scent of his soft skin and marvelled at his exquisite perfection.

I turned around and he was zipping across the floor in mad-baby fashion, laughing with wild abandon to be free of the confines of crib and playpen. What a cute, contented, pleasant baby he was. Big brown eyes and sandy hair, he made us deliriously happy when he mimicked the words “Mama” and “Dada.” A genius in the making!

I turned around and he was a curious toddler, eagerly exploring the world around him and astounding his parents with his intellectual skill in learning the alphabet at such a tender age. His expressive face took on a studious look whenever he encountered something new and intriguing. How proud I felt when someone commented, “Isn't he a smart little fellow?”

I turned around and he was heading off to Kindergarten with a little blue school bag slung over his shoulder. I remember trying to hold back tears as I saw the tell-tale signs of uncertainty in his eyes and the slight tremble of his lower lip. Off he went into the big unknown, leaving the security of home to follow his teacher and classmates while a tiny break opened up in his mother's heart.

I turned around and he was an active young boy playing street hockey with his friends and younger brother. Keenly interested in dinosaurs and the intricacies of the galaxy, my growing genius was a straight A student (for a while at least). He revelled in video games, Japanese comics, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Calvin and Hobbes, and big hardcover books about scientific discoveries. Oh, yes, he also found time to team up with his middle brother to make their baby brother's life a living hell at times. Toughening him up, they called it.

I turned around and he was a tall, lanky, wise-cracking teenager. Sometimes distant, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes looking at me with an air of superiority – occasionally condescending to smile at me, revealing brief glimpses of the little boy who used to be. A typical know-it-all teen; I, of course, as the mother, knew nothing. How could I? I was an ancient old hag in the latter stages of my thirties!

I turned around and he was stepping on a plane to fly off to college. Oh, how my head and heart ached for days. How would he ever get by without me? Was he hungry? Or lonely? Would those far away profs know that my boy was so smart and so special? Was he making new friends? Good friends? Was he safe? Oh, the torture of those early days of separation!

I turned around and he was wearing a grad gown, striding across a stage to receive his diploma. The future lay ahead of him, bright and shining with dreams of success. When the reality of the job market dashed those hopes for a while, I commiserated with his frustration until, once again, a plane ride bore him off to an unknown future.

I turned around and he was an ecstatic young man calling to inform his parents that he had secured a lucrative position after passing through an intensive screening process of application.

I turned around and listened carefully as he spoke so glowingly of a lovely young nurse he had met. I turned around and heard the love in his voice as he assured us that she was definitely “the one.” I turned around and he was again on the phone with a nervous tremor in his voice saying that he was sitting in his car outside a jewellery store and he was going inside to buy an engagement ring. 

I turned around and watched through tear-filled eyes as I witnessed his wedding vows to the woman he loves with all his heart. His tall brothers stood by his side – the three amigos, toughening up days behind them.

I turned around and that magic phone line once again brought incredible news of an impending arrival. Now my firstborn son and his beautiful wife await the birth next month of their firstborn son. In the midst of falling leaves and thoughts of thanksgiving, they will harvest their little pumpkin from life's bountiful garden.

If I were to share one piece of wisdom with the new parents, it would be this: Savor every blessed moment of family life and, oh yes, don't turn around too fast!

Twerking

I did some twerking in my backyard today. (Look it up online; the word is probably too new to be in a printed dictionary.) Now, wait a minute. Don't call for a strait jacket yet. Let me explain. Yes, my ass was up in the air most of the day and there was definitely a whole lotta shakin' goin' on, but not of the Miley variety.

Here in the north, we have two seasons: a very short, barely warm summer and a very long, mind-numbing cold winter. So, late August to early September would qualify as fall. Therefore, it is time to begin preparing my newly created miniature garden for fall bulb planting. Hence, the twerking. Raking, hoeing, tilling, spreading new topsoil, etc. It gave me tremendous satisfacation to rip out the roots of my mortal enemy – weeds.

Although allergies prevent me from having flowers in my house, I seem able to enjoy them in the great outdoors with no apparent side effects. This week's blooming of an absolutely beautiful pink rose in the corner of my yard has inspired me to dream big when it comes to flowers, so I've decided to opt for perennials instead of a few miserly annuals. Now that I've discovered my long dormant green thumb, I can hardly wait to get started. Over the next couple of weeks, I'll visit the local garden centre to ferret out the heartiest bulbs for zone 0 to 1 and plant them lovingly in the freshly tilled ground. Hubby was kind enough to install a temporary chicken wire fence around my precious plot of soil to keep the dogs from burying bones there. I've vowed to chop the tail off any hound caught digging (or planting, if you catch my drift) in my garden. 

Well, we shall see what next spring brings; hopefully, it will be worth the effort. I don't know if Miley's butt hurts as much as mine does, but I know for sure that my twerking is done, at least until the bulbs are ready to be planted. The neighbours are no doubt grateful for small mercies. 

Claustrophobic Travels

Everyone loves to get away for a while, especially during the long, lazy days of summer. Some head for the beach or the mountains, some go home to visit friends and family, others take the trip of a lifetime to see with their own eyes the history and beauty of other countries. All of this moving around the globe involves various forms of travel. Getting there can be either pleasurable or a real pain in the posterior.

If you're claustrophobic - like me - the journey, more likely than not, brings its share of hyperventilating moments. It all began many years ago when someone sat on me while I lay face down in a snowbank. Were it not for several quick-thinking friends who hauled the kid off me in the nick of time, I might have made an early exit from this life. From that day on, I have had a mortal fear of enclosed spaces.

Yet, like millions of others, I love to visit new places and favorite old haunts, and, since I live in a fairly isolated northern community, long travel days are par for the course. Driving is my preferred mode of transportation, except when it involves a ferry ride or tunnel excursion. The twins of my Gemini psyche are constantly at war with one another when I'm travelling – logic vs emotion. You will definitely not smother while exiting your vehicle in the bowels of this ship, asserts logic in a condescending manner. Omg, I can't breathe, I'm trapped, I'm going to die from paralytic fear down here in this dark, stinking hellhole, screams emotion in a state of utter panic. Quintessential Mr. Spock vs Dr. McCoy for all you Trekkies. While driving through the Lafontaine Tunnel in Montreal one time, I was so overcome with dread and apprehension that I cried silently for however long it took to travel the 1.8 kms (must have been at least a hundred years) and I was incapable of speaking for about two hours after the ordeal. Poor hubby always wears a worried frown when escorting me on trips that involve travelling in confined spaces. He's no doubt wondering if this is the time she really loses it.

Flying is also problematic for the legions of us who suffer this sort of malady. It's not the fear of heights nor the possibility of crashing that scares the daylights out of me. No, sirree. I could probably fly around the world without a hitch if they didn't have to close the damn door.

Even when I drive to the supermarket in the middle of winter, I usually have to open the window a crack just to reassure myself that there is a good supply of air circulating throughout the car. Up to this point, I've somehow always managed to survive the stomach churning, irrational anxiety of claustophobia sufficiently to allow me to travel to other locations, but it is definitely draining. As I plan to roam further afield in future years, I'll have to rely ever more deeply on my tried and true mantra: “This is what I have to do to get to where I'm going.”

Gone to the Dogs

Life has gone to the dogs lately. Literally! Mica, our 11 year old Beagle, has been Mommy's baby and Daddy's little girl since she came to us as a tiny puppy tripping over her long ears until she finally grew into them. Recently, she rather reluctantly opened up her home to Blue, a young, energetic, muscular Boxer-Amstaff mix with an engaging, albeit occasionally domineering, personality. Blue is the pride and joy of Son # 2 whose new job necessitated a part-time return to home turf. She also has a brother, Hemi, a.k.a. the Gentle Giant, who occasionally drops by for a visit. Hemi boy could easily be a stand-in for Scooby-Doo; a big old wuss who looks imposing but is actually scared of his own shadow, especially since a recent terrifying encounter in which he had his ears boxed quite soundly by a neighbour's cat. Then there's Reno and Nova, the canine offspring of Son # 3. When those two rapscallions join the brood, all hell breaks loose.

Mica leaves no doubt in the others' minds that she's top dog, the matriarch of the clan. Even though she's much smaller than Blue, Hemi and Nova, she has no trouble giving them a verbal lashing when necessary. Little Reno, with his mischievous, elfin face, usually turns his head to one side and sits back on his haunches to watch the exchanges from a safe distance. At times, Mica and Hemi seem to form an alliance of the laid-back duo while Blue and Nova rambunctiously duke it out over territorial rights. Reno, Houdini of the doggie world, quietly pokes around trying to sniff out a likely escape route in which to squeeze through for a brief attempt at his own little run for freedom.

As you might guess, our backyard is now a veritable minefield of doggie do. Hence, at least twice daily, I hie myself off to the battle grounds armed with a litter scoop – gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “doggie-bag.” When the pooping and scooping is done, it's time to take out the garden hose and give the grass a refreshing sprinkle. One day while Hemi was visiting, I had just turned on the water and before I knew what hit me, I was slammed against the side of the garage by an 85 pound whirling cyclone of a dog. I had never seen Hemi so animated. Who knew he had a thing for garden hoses????

Sometimes, when it's just the two of them around, Mica and Blue curl up together like two peas in a pod. Of course, if I happen to plant my butt in their vicinity, they both want to get up in my lap. It's hilarious to see the shapes they get themselves into while trying to squirm closer to Mommy or Nan depending on whose viewpoint you look at. Yes, I have been reduced (or elevated) to being not just a canine mother, but now also a grandmother to a pack of dogs.

For a brief period of time between the kids leaving home and the dogs descending upon my little castle, I prided myself on having a reasonably tidy house. Now, the floors are covered in old blankets, the furniture is showing signs of wear, dog fur sometimes swirls around like tumbleweeds out of the wild west, and eau de chien is my signature cologne. Aw, well, things could be worse. Imagine if someone brings home a cat!

Ferris Wheels and Roller Coasters

I’ve never felt the allure of adventure.  Never even wanted to.  My earliest memory of witnessing screaming people hurtling themselves through space is when I was about 10 years old and a “fair” came to town.  Scattered throughout a mall parking lot were striped tents, several different types of amusement rides and a big old ferris wheel.  I recall standing in awe and looking way, way up at the precariously swinging baskets while feeling slightly queasy from my first bewildering taste of overly sweet, pink cotton candy.  Wiping sticky fingers on my pretty summer dress, I turned my back on the looming monster with its shrieking occupants and opted instead to try out the more docile merry-go-round.

In the decades that have passed since that fateful encounter, I’ve done my best to avoid ferris wheels and roller coaster rides, literally and figuratively.  They’re too darn stressful!  But fate has a way of tossing you smack dab in the highest basket without warning and, when it does, you have no choice but to hang on for dear life.  My husband and I were recently reluctantly taken on one such horrifying ride with his unexpected diagnosis of cancer.  Before we could even grasp the reality of it, we were on a plane flying thousands of miles into the unknown to seek advanced medical assistance.  Fear and dread came along as our travelling companions. 

The next few weeks were permeated with doctors’ visits, painful procedures, and interminable waiting when each second seemed like a million years and life itself was in a state of suspended animation.  Then came the dire news that a hoped for short cut procedure was unsuccessful and major surgery was the only other option.  More waiting, fretting, worrying, struggling to maintain some degree of normalcy when our whole world was turned topsy-turvy and the outcome was uncertain. 

Amidst all of this turmoil, we clung to a little ray of hope and a precious secret shared with our eldest son and his beautiful wife who had just recently informed us that a new family member was on the way - our first grandchild.  Since there was so little time between hearing this wonderful news and the flip side bad news, there was no opportunity to do much shopping but I had managed to pick up a sweet, tiny undergarment as a token reminder of good things to come.  My husband carried that little onesie with him throughout his entire ordeal, proudly informing everyone he met that he was soon going to be a “Poppy”.   Mere words could never convey the positive impact which that miniscule piece of clothing had on both of us during those anxiety- ridden days on life’s roller coaster.  We even named it Poppy’s good luck charm.

Following what was termed a successful surgery, we were soon caught unawares by an unexpected setback in my husband’s recovery.  Finally, his condition improved to the point where he was released from hospital and we took a tentative little gasp of fresh, clean, non-institutional air.  But our joy in this victory over adversity was short lived as just two days later, my husband’s father passed away suddenly and, once again, the entire family was sent reeling into a state of shock.  How much more could we take at that point?  It seemed as if a black hole had opened up and swallowed us completely within its bleakness. 

Yet, we were never alone in our struggles.  Our faith in a loving, compassionate God and the truly wonderful, prayerful support of friends and family were the crutches on which we rested during those dark, energy-draining days.  Without such assistance, I don’t know how we could have survived the barrage. 

My husband’s amazing recovery continues and we recently received the incredible news that all signs of cancer were removed through the surgery – no further treatments necessary.  What a blessing!  Earlier this month, he proudly participated in the survivors’ walk at our local Relay for Life and you can probably guess what he carried in his hand during that victory lap. 

Now, we eagerly await the arrival of that precious little baby boy in a few short months.  Nana and Poppy plan to be there with bells on for the big day.   When he is old enough to visit an amusement park, I think we’ll head on over to the ferris wheel and roller coaster to take a look at all the silly, screaming people while we eat our cotton candy.  Then we’ll passively stroll on to the merry-go-round or maybe even the giant tea cups for a nice, pleasant little spin.  Leave the more adventuresome rides for someone else.

 

How Does Your Garden Grow?

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary.  How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row.”  (English nursery rhyme)

Just a short year ago, when I joined the ranks of the semi-retired, I decided that it was about time I created a small garden in my backyard.  Nothing elaborate or fancy, just a pleasant little space to brighten up a dingy corner.  My eyes have always appreciated the aesthetic merit of lavish floral displays spreading colour and beauty across a backdrop of lush velvet greenery.  Alas, my poor nose doesn’t share the fascination.  Allergies force me to restrict my proximity to many flourishing blooms.  Still, a garden I wanted and a garden I would have!

So, dressed in my best Indiana Jones costume, I set off into the area 51 section of my backyard (out behind the garage) where no human had ventured to go in many a year, armed to the teeth with spade, pruning shears, and whippersnipper, hell bent on thrashing the bejeepers out of whatever entity had taken up residence there for the past five decades.  The battle lasted for at least a week and it was not a pretty sight.  After hacking, slashing and digging my way through waist high mutant weeds, I eventually emerged triumphantly from the wilderness, although by that time I probably resembled John the Baptist more closely than I care to admit.  My victory was sweet, though, as I proudly surveyed the little patch of cleared land just waiting to fulfill my botanical dreams. 

A trip to the gardening centre was next on the agenda and I eagerly browsed through the colourful selections until my watery eyes and dripping nose prompted a hasty exit.  But I was happy with my pretty, though limited, flower choices.  Back home again, I filled in the tiny garden area with some lovely blossoms and delightful ornaments.  Pleased with myself, you betcha!  Yep, I enjoyed two glorious days of patting myself on the back before the damn weeds returned with a vengeance.  The rest of the summer passed by in a blur as I was forced to participate in repeat performances of the battle of the weeds.

This year, when the snow finally melted and the mud disappeared, I rather reluctantly crept out behind the garage once more to sneak a peek at the remnants of last year’s garden.  What a mess!  The hosta that seemed to be doing so well last summer was nowhere in sight, grass was growing up through the black earth I had spread with such care, and those ugly, octopus like weeds with their vile yellow tops were the only things flourishing in my poor little garden.  Anger exploded behind my eyes in mind-numbing flashes and I grabbed the shears with murderous intent.  Not only did I viciously snip off the tops of the weeds, but I also mercilessly dug out their far-reaching tentacles from beneath the earth’s surface and threw them over the fence in wild abandon.  I briefly thought of using a chemical weed killer but the wellbeing of my doggies overcame my desire for immediate annihilation of those dreadful troublemakers.  At the end of the first day, I crawled out from behind the garage battered and exhausted but satisfied that I had won another round against my mortal enemy. 

Refreshed after a long, soothing soak and a good night’s sleep, I strolled onto the patio the next morning with a cup of tea  and revelled in the sun’s warm touch on my skin as I surveyed my little backyard kingdom.  I nearly choked on Greek yogurt when my eyes perceived the unmistakable invasion of sneaky, snaky weeds in the grass far beyond the confines of the garage.  Oh, me nerves!  Logic and rationale vanished as I attacked the marauders with the mind-set of Attila the Hun and I’ve kept up the assault for days.  My fingers are muddy and torn, my legs hurt, my back aches, my arms scream in pain, and my butt is in agony.  The backyard looks like a pock-marked lunar landscape.  If NASA wanted to recreate another staged moon landing, they could do so quite convincingly right here.

I have a daunting suspicion that I’ll wear out before the weeds do.  The mere thought of repeating this process on an annual basis sends pulsating shivers of abhorrence up and down my spine.  Joni Mitchell probably had the right idea when she sang, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.”  Might be something to consider!

I Have a Friend

I have a friend who is like no other I’ve ever known.  My friend is not part of my Rummoli group; nor has my friend ever gone dress shopping with me or swapped pregnancy experiences or shared a bottle of suntan lotion on a sunny beach.  My friend’s caring and generosity of spirit is not exclusively mine, but I am proud and happy to share that love with so many other grateful people. 

I have a friend who places the wellbeing of others at the top of his priority list.  From phone calls during times of stress, to personal visits, to handwritten messages of encouragement, to bouquets of brightly colored flowers, to cards of condolence or congratulation, my friend never misses any opportunity to bring comfort or a smile to the lives of those he encounters.  His numerous little acts of kindness spin a web of happiness in an ever expanding circle of benevolence.

I have a friend who expresses his Christian faith in a way that is simplistic and non-judgemental.  My friend sees each and every person in the same light, regardless of social standing, gender, race or creed.  My friend made his appearance on this earth well over eight decades ago, but his egalitarianism reflects a surprisingly modern approach to life in this rapidly changing world.   Yet, traditional principles of faithfulness and family values resonate strongly in his personal ethics and interaction with other people.

I have a friend who is always ready and willing to listen when I need a sympathetic ear.  I have a friend who is not afraid to say, “I’ll pray for you.”  I have a friend who quietly works behind the scenes to do whatever he can to lighten the load for others.  I have a friend who shuns the spotlight and steadfastly refuses to be lured by the trappings of his profession’s hierarchy.  I have a friend who may never be publicly acknowledged as a “saint”, but who carries that distinction, nonetheless, in the hearts of countless people whose lives he has gently touched. 

Thank you, Fr. Neil Haight, OMI for being my friend.

Waves

The ebb and flow of coastal waves awakes me in the night.

It calls to me, as in days of old, "Let go of fear and fright."

This little cove of childhood days shelters me once more.

Brace yourself, it whispers, afore the tempest strikes the shore.

I see the storm clouds brewing, darkness fills the sky;

churning waves and tears of rage as lightning flashes by.

The gentle lop of yesteryear gives way to crashing, pounding surf;

we are swept along within its tide, torn from familiar turf.

The tapestry is drowning - no, see it clings tightly to the rocks!

Keep heads above the water and eyes upon the docks.

The storm will pass, its fury spent, and peace will come once more.

God's universe will right itself along this wave tossed shore.

The Journey

We started this journey a long time ago,

not knowing its purpose or where we would go.

A vow and a promise were all that we had,

love pledged forever in good times and bad.

Through laughter and tears we stood side by side,

like beads through our fingers the years they slipped by.

Around us our family helped chart life’s true course,

we weathered the storms for better or worse.

Bumps in the road or churning rough seas,

 just temporary setbacks for you and for me.

Faith, friends and family have kept us afloat

when turmoil threatened to topple our boat.

The future awaits, with promises anew,

mountains to climb and vistas to view.

The journey continues, its path winds along,

together we’ll dance to life’s destiny song.

 

Author: Y.M.T.

Is the spirit a-movin'?

Stupefied!  That was my reaction to the announcement made by Pope Benedict XVI concerning his decision to renounce his ministry as Bishop of Rome and spiritual leader of over one billion Catholics.  I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who was stunned by this sudden notice of impending resignation.  After all, it’s the Pope we’re talking about.  The last Supreme Pontiff to resign did so about six hundred years ago.

However, from the time of his election, Pope Benedict never appeared quite comfortable in the Chair of St. Peter.  Following on the heels of the very popular Pope John Paul II, the former Cardinal Ratzinger seemed to pale in comparison to his predecessor.   His decision now to step down further emphasizes the differences between these two men.  The duties and strains of the past eight years have certainly taken its toll on a man who was nearly 80 when he assumed the hefty responsibilities of the papacy.  Yet, unlike Pope John Paul II who so visibly showed the world what it was like to suffer through the debilitating effects of geriatrics, the current Pope has determined that, for the sake of the Church, it would be better to cope with his failing health in a much more private manner.  And why not?  Surely even a Pope deserves to have a little peace and quiet in his twilight years.  It also takes considerable courage to publicly acknowledge one’s limited capacity of mind and body and to relinquish the reins of power for the greater good. 

So, that brings the Catholic Church to the brink of a new opportunity.  Very shortly, a conclave will convene to select a new Pope from the ranks of the College of Cardinals and one can only hope that the spirit is indeed a-movin’ within this process.  Given the significant challenges facing the Church in modern times, it’s imperative that the 266^th Pope be a relatively young man (in comparison to other Cardinals), enthusiastic, energetic, and in touch with the issues and concerns of the people he is chosen to serve.   If the next Pontiff is going to revitalize the faithful, he must be open to positive change and be willing to drag the Church into the 21^st century, despite opposition from some conservative members within the Vatican.  It will not be an easy task, but this may be the last chance to reach out to millions of disconnected Catholics throughout the world, especially in North America.  “Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful and kindle in them the fire of your love.”

 

That's Inspirational!

Egalitarianism (n):  a belief in human equality esp. in social, political, and economic affairs

Heroism (n):  the qualities of a hero, (eg) bravery, courage…valor

Inspirational (adj):  (having) the act or power of moving the intellect or emotions, (eg) embolden, encourage, hearten

Merrian-Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus (2006)

Words such as these usually evoke images of soldiers, police officers or firefighters heroically risking their own lives to save someone else’s.  The connotation doesn’t naturally flow to include a small, soft-spoken 15 year old Pakistani girl named Malala.  Yet, with every fiber of her being, she personifies equality, heroism, and inspiration.  Despite having been nearly killed by a Taliban assassin who cowardly jumped aboard a school bus and put a bullet in her brain and another in her neck, she remains steadfast and determined to stand up to tyranny.  Prior to undergoing her most recent round of surgery, she quietly but purposefully stated in a news conference that she intends to continue with her campaign to assure the right of education for children all over the world.  During the conference, Malala said, “…I am getting better day by day.  It’s just because of the prayers of people.  Because all people – men, women and children – all of them have prayed for me.  And because of all these prayers, God has given me this new life, a second life.  And I want to serve.  I want to serve the people, I want every girl, every child, to be educated.”  That’s inspirational!

In December, a young medical student from India lost the struggle to survive after enduring inexplicable horror in a gang rape and brutal beating which took place on a bus in New Delhi.  Unbelievably, a similar incident took place in India just a few weeks later, but this time the victim survived the ordeal and was dumped like a sack of garbage in a local village once her attackers had finished with her.  The Human Rights Watch recently gave a failing grade to India’s government regarding what that organization described as the rampant sexual abuse of women and children, especially in schools and state-run facilities.  Spurred into action by these shocking atrocities, the people of India – women and girls, in particular – have decided that enough is enough.  They are fighting back and demanding that the authorities take definitive action in putting an end to such outrageous and unacceptable behaviour.  That’s inspirational!

Again in December, the world witnessed another vile act of depravity when six teachers – all of them women – did their best to shield their tiny students from a gunman’s assault rifle.  Those teachers and twenty little children died in a hail of bullets.  But, the nightmare of their last moments on earth has emboldened millions of people in the US to stand up to the powerful influence of the NRA and to press on with their battle to ban assault weapons.  That’s inspirational!

Within my own ever expanding family, there is a group of awesome young women who have wholeheartedly grasped the opportunity which post-secondary education offers, and some of them have even left home and family behind at a relatively young age to pursue their academic dreams in far-away centers of learning.  Others have chosen to follow a similar scholarly path closer to home while simultaneously holding down part-time or full-time jobs.  That’s inspirational!

Thank you, Malala, and all the other enthusiastic, determined, intelligent, young – and not so young – women of the world whose dream is to make a better life for themselves and everyone around them, regardless of sex, race, creed, or social standing.  May your simple message and strong witness to the tenets of respect and equality for all reverberate throughout the world, dismantling the shackles of oppression and intimidation link by link until basic human rights are afforded to every single person who inhabits this earth.  That’s inspirational!

Livin' in the Tropics

“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…..”  Oh, yeah, that was two months ago.  A very long, cold, snowy, cabin fever two months ago!

Last summer, when we could actually open the doors and step outside the house, my husband and his brother built a lovely new deck in our back yard.  Sitting out there with a tall glass of refreshing iced tea and a good book in my hand, I felt so relaxed and serenely content – revelling in my lovely tropical paradise.  Can’t say the same today.

Relaxation turned to frustration and serenity was frozen into submission following a relentless pounding from Old Man Winter.  For most of January, wind chill factors fluctuated between -40 to -60 celsius until the temperature warmed up to a balmy -7 a couple of days ago.  Before I had time to do my little happy dance over this unexpected gift of good fortune, the storm clouds blew in and dumped 50 centimeters of snow on us over a two day period.  Bah humbug!!!!!

As I struggled in vain to clear a doggie latrine in the back yard this morning, the wind screeched in my ears and every shovelful of snow blew back in my face in howling mockery.  I finally capitulated.  Dear Old Man Winter, you win.  I can no longer hold out against your persuasive seduction.  Tonight, your frostiness will embrace me once again in a mind-numbing -51 wind chill.

Well, I have another good book, so I think I’ll put on my sexy snow suit, grab a glass of iced tea and set up a folding chair on the six square inches of cleared patio to catch some vitamin D rays.  Hey, don’t knock my little fantasy.  Sanity may have fled, but at least serenity has returned.

 

Before                                                                         After

SOUL SEARCHING

When emotions run high and trouble runs deep

Sometimes words become lost and promises don’t keep

If hearts and tongues are not always aligned

Then hurt and uncertainty follow closely behind 

The bloom of first love in those sweet, stolen glances

Fades away in the chill of dashed hopes and lost chances

The future that once seemed so rosy and bright

Remains just a flicker in winter’s dark night 

Hold fast to the flame, though its glow may be dim

Search your hearts to be sure true love lies within

Seek ways to express those feelings most hidden

Trust and respect, then talk and listen

The road walked by others may not be the same

As the one planned for you; life isn’t a game

If it’s true that actions speak louder than words

Let what you do be your voice and let it be heard

What’s worth holding on to will not soon depart

Patience is a virtue when it comes to the heart

Take time to consider which path is for you

Then follow those dreams and make them come true

New Year's Resolutions

I’ve never paid much attention to New Year’s resolutions, and I think that’s mainly due to the fact that I’m a self-confessed wimpy moderate.  There’s not an adventuresome bone in my body, much to the chagrin of my three daredevil sons. Just being their mother has provided me with all the nerve-jangling adventure I could ever wish for.

So, as each December 31^st rolls around, I pragmatically avoid making any resolutions which I know will never be kept anyway.  Sure, I’d love to look in the mirror and see a ravishing long-legged, fit and tanned beauty staring back at me but, realistically, if that happened Cindy Crawford would have to be standing directly behind me.  I’m not a complete couch potato – I use my treadmill (moderately) and I love to walk the dog (moderately) when weather conditions permit.  However, when the basic temperature dips into the minus 20’s Celsius and the snow banks tower way above us, neither the dog nor I are inclined to risk frostbite or being run over by a vehicle for the sake of fitness.  A marathon runner I will never be; however, I respect and admire those who aspire to such madness. As for resolving to give up chocolate or some other relative nonsense, that’s not gonna happen either.  Tried it for Lent 40 times or so with disastrous results!

I did recently purchase a “nutrient extractor” which promises to squeeze all the goodness out of fresh fruits and veggies, pulverize it all into a slimy green liquid concoction, and magically transform my innards into a fat burning, energy driven model of health and well-being.  That is, if I can swallow the stuff without gagging. 

I shall strive to be kinder to myself and to others this year and, so, my resolution for 2013 is based on an anonymous quotation:  “Please let me be the person my dog thinks I am.”  Happy New Year!